


All Joys Are Due to Thee

by sssibilance



Series: To Cardassia, With Love [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Cocktail parties, Food, Imperialism, M/M, Oral Sex, Poetry, Sorry Not Sorry, allegory so thick you can cut it with a laser scapel, anne donne, debate, john donne, literary criticism, sssibilance isn't subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssibilance/pseuds/sssibilance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though part of a series, this may be read as a stand-alone piece.</p><p>Bashir and Garak attend a Cardassian-style cocktail party, and Bashir is put on the spot when several guests expect him to produce Terran literary recommendations on demand.  Bashir takes it upon himself to rewrite one of his favourite poems, pulling Garak into a rather unconventional revision process.</p><p>Poetry, heavy-handed allegory, and sex abound.</p><p>Small content and copy editing completed 3 March 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Joys Are Due to Thee

**Author's Note:**

> This story is centered around John Donne's poem [ To His Mistress Going to Bed](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180683). I hope I've made the discussion of this poem clear enough that readers need not actually read the poem to get the story. However, I do recommend giving it a read, as it is lovely. Donne's poem [Forbidding Mourning](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173387) is also mentioned, and so I thought it a good idea to link to that as well.
> 
> Details of Cardassian biology are borrowed from [tinsnip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip), with many thanks. You can read her speculations on Cardassian reproductive biology [here](http://tinsnip.tumblr.com/post/67613563632/okay-so-i-just-read-your-ticks-fic-and-wow-that-was). Again, the action should be clear without a serious study of the linked post, but it's on my rec list for Trek science geeks.

It was a three-moon night; bright and clear and cool by Cardassian standards. By Human standards, it was warm, but pleasant enough for Bashir to enjoy his walk, arm linked with Garak's. It wasn't yet late; just past supper time, and so there were many opportunities to people watch as they stepped along at a purposeful but easy gait. Older children still played in the streets, couples perambulated on the same newly-repaired pavement Garak and Bashir tread, and a few people here or there hurried home or ambled elsewhere.

The two were headed to a gathering Garak had likened to a Terran cocktail party. Bashir could tell by his tone that Garak was being rather generous. It would be like a cocktail party in that there would be alcohol, small comestibles, and light conversation with people in whom you might be forced to feign interest. The main purpose of an “evening party” was to bring people together the host found useful or curious. Guests came with the hopes of networking, which Cardassians simply termed "making alliances," and so the invited tolerated being elected and arranged for the host's own purposes. Garak was no doubt invited as a result of of his new position as their sector's minister: their host was a councilmember in the sector's local government, representing a medium-sized ward. Bashir was likely invited because he was engaged to be enjoined to Garak, and thus came as a package deal.

Garak had fairly warned Bashir about the ways their social calendar would change with the change in Garak's occupation and title. When Garak had first voiced his interest in running for their sector's ministerial seat, he had introduced the topic by pouring Bashir a cup of wine and sitting him down at the kitchen table before saying, “Doctor, we must talk.” Bashir thought he was being dumped.

When Garak had revealed his plans, relieved he wasn't going to end the night in tears, Bashir's delighted response was: “That's wonderful!”

Garak sighed. “Yes, that is what I thought you would say.”

Bashir frowned. “Don't you want to run?" Bashir's voice was coloured with both misunderstanding and insistence. "You would be an excellent legislator, Garak. You know the law, the workings of the government. You're well-liked in the sector.” This was true, due in large part to Garak's time spent working to rebuild the City, and his way of charming even those people he did not like.

Garak took a sip of his own wine with a heavily considered air. “Well. I shall not comment on my own popularity.” Bashir snorted into his wine. “It's true that I would be far better placed to effect change from a position in the government.”

“You've achieved a great deal since returning to Cardassia. I think this is a logical step.”

“Yes, very logical.” His tone was lightly mocking as he echoed Bashir, but then Garak reached for Bashir's hand, interlacing their fingers. His expression was intense, like he was trying to send an encrypted message by gaze alone, and his next words were more serious. “My dear, it would be very long hours.”

Just that? Bashir squeezed his hand. “You work long hours already. We both do. At least we live in the Capitol – what an easy commute.” They lived right next to a street transport hub. “And I imagine you will be giving up what tailoring business you are still doing.”

“With the exception of one customer, who needs my help desperately.” Garak looked askance at Bashir's attire. He was wearing purple yoga pants and a blue athletic tee. He'd been working out. Bashir ignored the remark, and Garak went on. “There will be a great deal of making nice with unpleasant people, many events I will be obliged to attend, no matter how tedious. As my fiancé, and soon my enjoined, you will be obliged as well.”

Bashir was becoming confused. “Garak. You are forever telling me I ought I explore Cardassia more, meet more people. With his steadily strengthening tongue, he added, _And practise my Cardassian_.”

“That's true. But perhaps you would not like to make nice with unpleasant people. Or make yourself aware to my opponents.”

Realisation suddenly hit Bashir; bright clarity that stabbed at his heart. Garak was not talking himself out of running. He was asking permission. He was reminding Bashir that Cardassian politics invariably involved the politician's partner, or here, the affianced. And he was acknowledging without words that his was a xenophobic species, and that Bashir had spent a great deal of time already facing odd stares, pressing, uncomfortable questions, and outright hostility.

Bashir chose his words then very carefully. “Every day, more Cardassians are made aware of my existence on this world. And my relationship with one Cardassian who is very qualified to run for office. I am already used to unpleasant people.” And truthfully, what Bashir most dealt with were the aggravating but non-threatening stares and odd questions. Few dared to be outright rude or hostile to him, particularly with Garak at his side smiling that perfectly innocuous snake smile. Bashir brought their linked hands to to his lips and kissed Garak's knuckles. “The choice is yours, of course, but I support you.”

Garak pulled his hand from Bashir's grasp, settling both of them in his lap. He blinked quickly. “I am perhaps too fortunate.” Garak rose suddenly, and Bashir thought he had said the wrong thing, but then Garak was by his side, pulling him up into a kiss. Later, as they lay side by side on the lounge, cooling off from sealing this commitment, Bashir wondered if he had talked Garak into something, or if he was the one who had been convinced.

 

Cardassian political campaigns, or at least the ones now held on Cardassia reborn, were mercifully quick in order to deter fraud and corruption. This did not keep the elections that were carried on in all the sectors of about a third of Cardassian cities completely clean, but there were also no mysterious deaths or accusations of voter intimidation, which Garak assured Bashir was near-miraculous, and a sign of sure change. Bashir's presence was not required for the duration of the election; Cardassian politicians did not host dinners, or parties, or "schmooze" to win votes, but relied instead on podium stands, caucus meetings, and a great deal of conversations behind closed doors. Once the elections were over, however, and his fiancé now went by "Minister," Bashir finally found his services as political arm candy required.

This required a great deal more practise in Cardassian and a crash course in politics and protocol. It also required a new wardrobe.

Bashir had never thought much about clothing before, something Garak had bemoaned quite frequently throughout their years-long acquaintance. As friends, Garak had frequently gifted Bashir with clothes, which Bashir understood were a series of subtle comments on his style. When they had begun their courtship, Bashir realised Garak had been quite restrained in the past, because the gifts of tailor-made items had increased greatly. Bashir understood quickly upon cohabitation that Garak, who delighted in Bashir's whims and avoided confrontations with smooth words and smiles, was unsuccessfully restraining a need to exert some kind of control over Bashir via his attire. When Garak unsubtly noted that many of his opponents were still committed xenophobes, like much of Cardassia, Bashir realised this was Garak's way of cleverly making Bashir appear inoffensive: Human, but with a Cardassian veneer. This in mind, Bashir allowed Garak to carefully create a series of outfits for public outings, political events, and important meetings.

“Think about your Starfleet uniform, however drab it may have been,” Garak had instructed as Bashir watched him piece together a sleeve. His tone was lightly professorial. “When you wore it, what did it say about you?”

Bashir pondered that. His uniform had always felt like a second skin. “That I was a Starfleet officer, obviously.” Garak frowned without looking up from his work. “That I was in the sciences division, a lieutenant...” More frowning. Ah, no, that's not what Garak wanted. “That I represented the Federation. That I followed the policies of the Federation...that my allegiances were by design with the Federation.” The proverbial light bulb went off. " _Oh._ Okay, yes.”

“Yes, indeed. My, aren't you clever.” Bashir swatted at Garak, who simply picked up a knitter and made it whirr. “Now, think of Mister Worf. Think of how, if you were not acquainted with him, what you would think if you first met him in a Klingon uniform, as compared to a Starfleet uniform, on Deep Space 9.”

“It makes a great difference. Our relationship with the Klingon Empire is perpetually in flux. A Starfleet uniform gives you immediate gravitas in the Federation, or on a Starfleet vessel or station.” Bashir bit his lip, suddenly thinking of Michael Eddington. “It also makes you blend in.”

“Yes, excellent.” Garak stopped his work to look up and smile. “And you my dear, will blend in.”

Bashir frowned. “But not disappear, I hope.”

“Heavens, no. You are too lovely for that. But you will be seen as a non-threat, culturally-coded as Cardassian.” Garak held up the green fabric he was working on. The Obsidian Order had clearly taught Garak more than Bashir had imagined. “It goes well beyond simply wearing Cardassian clothing. Colour, design, texture all send messages most miss.”

Garak must have used these skills to spy, though Bashir would never ask.

Instead Bashir nodded. “Different colours have different meanings for different cultures. That with cut and style show one's personality, or rank, or job.” He paused, thinking of his psychiatric rotation as an intern. Bashir learned to pay attention to a patient's appearance for clues into their mental state. “And probably their moods or other subconscious pulls and designs.

Garak looked quite pleased. “Precisely. My dear, you will be the best dressed, because you will be the most cleverly dressed.” Bashir chuckled at that.

“I must say, I feel a little like Cinderella.” If the prince were a spy, and fairy tale political drama.

“Is that a good thing?”

Bashir was working through a feeling in his chest: an odd sort of pride at being cared for so well, and in such an obvious and visible manner. “Yes, I think it is.”

 

It was that green shirt Bashir wore tonight. Green, according to Garak, was in this season, and also happened to be one of the colours that signified loyalty and power - and so was used by the government a great deal, as well as in weddings. His shirt was light and delicious against his skin. It was cut in a Cardassian fashion, showing off shoulder, neck, clavicle, and a dip between his scapulae. It fell to his hips, and fit closely around his torso and waist, the stitching showing off his form. His trousers were dark grey, a very common colour, and he wore leather sandals with a hint a hint of green sheen in the scales. Bashir had made the decision himself to lacquer his toenails black in the Cardassian fashion, and was pleased at Garak's surprised and approving smile. Head to toe, he stated: 'I honour your traditions, I am part of this landscape, and I am dressed to show off, but do not invite flirtation.' It was spectacularly executed, Bashir thought. He was ridiculously pleased with Garak.

Bashir admired the effect his black toenails had matched with his sandals as they walked along. Their footsteps made a pleasant sound and echoed just a little in the still night air. His and Garak's steps were a little off rhythm, and the pattern of offbeat _swish-slap_ s as they made their way, along with the glinting of their sandals' metal pieces and soft sheen of the leather came pleasantly together for Bashir in a mind-lulling synaesthesia.

Bashir was so absorbed with it, he was surprised when Garak stopped suddenly. “We are here, Doctor. Are you a awake?” Garak's face was lit with good humour.

Bashir laughed, and let himself be guided off the pavement lining the street and to the door. They had reached a much nicer part of their sector – filled with large houses that had been rebuilt and often re-purposed into multi-unit homes.

“I'm just admiring my shoes, actually.” Bashir wiggled his toes.

“I do hope I haven't inflated you ego any further, my dear. We have already reached critical levels.”

Bashir bumped into Garak teasingly as they walked up to the door. “Garak, thank you for making me even more beautiful. Maybe with my nice, new wardrobe I can find another mate who appreciates my ego and natural charm.”

With a _hah!_ Garak pressed the door chime. Bashir was stifling a giggle when the door opened, and a woman around Bashir's age answered, dressed elegantly in a deep blue dress, her hair wrapped in a very high and complicated knot. “Good evening,” she said, not rudely. She gave Bashir curious but polite once-over. “I am Lehza Martik, Councilmember Martik's wife.” She nodded to Garak, “And you are Minister Garak, yes?”

“I am. This is Dr. Julian Bashir, my soon-to-be enjoined” Garak moved his hand to gently push at the small of Bashir's back; reminding him of protocol. Bashir nodded politely, his palms held outward. Lehza Martik returned the gesture, then held the door open wider.

“Please come in. We are gathering in the back of the house on the stones. Don't mind your sandals, this is just the through-way.” Bashir could now see the house was split into a sort of duplex – the front door was shared, as was a common hallway leading out back, but there were doors left and right that were closed and seemed to mark and close off the separate households.

In the back were two sliding doors, both open, but with soft netting hanging to keep the insects and other creatures out. Lehza led them through one, and onto the stones, which were essentially a sort of patio, paved with geometric stone slabs in sandy colours. There were large plant boxes that created a sense of separate areas in the back garden, and a table set up with food and drink. Someone had strung lanterns that reminded Bashir very much of parties on Earth. There was already a small crowd of people – Garak and Bashir liked to _say_ they liked to be fashionably late, but given the one's government-indoctrinated punctuality, and the other's genetically enhanced sense of time, this meant they arrived exactly on time.

Bashir turned to Lehza, who was scanning the crowd. “It's lovely out here.”

Lehza seemed pleased. “Well, it took a great deal of work. The back of the building, including the stones and and the plant life were destroyed. The whole garden was being used as a dumping ground, actually. Once it was cleared and regraded, however, I was able to make quicker time with the rebuilding.”

Garak looked impressed. “Madam Martik, did you design this space?”

Lehza blinked quickly. “Of course. I am a landscape designer.” Bashir thought of his father's foray into design and thought perhaps he'd be quite envious of this woman's skill. Lehza added, “Ah, but perhaps you did not know. Here, let me find my husband for you.”

Finding her husband was not overly difficult, as there were only seven people present total. Lehza Martik was obviously a woman in command of all she surveyed: she raised her arm, and let out a loud whistling hiss before calling, “Bretan!” The man in question whipped his head around and nodded at Bashir and Garak, not at all embarrassed to be called for like a dog, apparently. They headed toward the group, who had all turned to inspect the newcomers.

Bretan Martik stepped forward with a solicitous smile. He nodded respectfully to Garak. “Minister, we are so pleased you were able to join us this evening.” He seemed pleased with Garak's usual brand of non-committal pleasantries in return. “And you must be Dr. Bashir.” Here he nodded less deeply, which Bashir expected. “I'm glad to meet you finally.” Martik surprised Bashir by presenting a hand to shake in the Terran-influenced Federation fashion.

“Thank you for inviting us. Elim has been encouraging me broaden my social sphere here on Cardassia and improve my language skills.” It felt a little odd, using Garak's given name outside of the home and intimate moments. The two had created a relationship in which the use of their surnames had the feel of pet names, of poetic appellations. But Garak and Bashir were working to create a lovely and impenetrable Elim-and-Julian veneer for public use, and their veneer selves used first names, because that is what most lovers on Cardassia did.

Martik introduced the two around efficiently and with due respect. There was Martik's neighbour, who was a natural invitee to a party in her own garden. She was a mature Cardassian woman, and a musician and teacher, as well as a war widow and guardian of her three grandchildren. There was an awkward and young poet, younger than Bashir at least, with his very tall wife. She seemed very surprised to be in present company. They were introduced to Professor Aleena, a historian, who also shook Bashir's hand and seemed not at all bothered by the presence of a Human. Councilmember Sitess, Garak already knew in a roundabout way, and Bashir had heard mention of. He was perhaps around Garak's age, and handsome in a crooked sort of way, with rather sharp features. He had been in the military before entering politics, according to Martik. He too shook Bashir's hand, giving him a sharp appraisal from hair to heel.

Bashir quickly saw the logic in each invitation that Martik, or perhaps his shrewd wife, had made. They all had some use in one way or another. As a politician, Martik might one day need a friend in the government, or at the university. He could broaden his base by being friendly with the oft-ignored artistic community, and he might one day need a discreet doctor's advice in a delicate matter. One contact, and this sort of party would pay off quite well. It would also behove him if, say, Garak made an alliance with Professor Aleena, and remembered Martik's introduction. Truthfully, Bashir knew Garak wasn't particularly impressed with Martik, but Garak still was bound by _some_ social and political niceties and wouldn't fail to return a favour just because he found Martik boring. Bashir made sure to memorize names and details, and to connect them with research later.

Bashir and Garak were the only two not drinking kanar, which Martik bustled to remedy. There were no servants present – the family likely had none, as it was too great an expense these days, and their wealth was likely mostly in the house. They had probably hired help to prepare the dishes and set up, but nothing more. Bashir felt at ease, served by the host and not a nameless person he was supposed not to notice.

Bashir accepted kanar. The taste had begun to grow on him, and it was an easy way to honour Cardassian culture, and an easy way not to be rude. They toasted “to the Union,” which was standard polite toasting fare. Bashir added, “to our hosts, and this lovely night.” Councilmember Martik seemed utterly tickled by this Terran toast, and puffed up considerably. “Come, friends,” he said, glowing with the pleasure of a party well played. “Sit, sit. Now that we are all here we can eat.”

Like many things in Cardassian architecture and design, tables were usually ovular and this one was as well. There were just enough seats for everyone, and they were made solidly with a light grey metal and hard black cushions. Bashir sat with Garak to his left, and Izbet Burtak, the poet's wife, to his right. She was a jeweller, Bashir reminded himself. Garak waited for Bashir to sit first, and rested his hand on Bashir's shoulder lightly and with affected idleness as he took his seat. Bashir smiled around the rim of his glass.

“Ah, these two are quite charming,” Martik's neighbour said, indicating Bashir and Garak with her own glass. “You two must marry quickly, before the first sandstorm.” Madam Hress was apparently the superstitious type.

Bashir felt Garak's hand on his shoulder again, and he reached to cover it with his own, playing with the small platinum ring he wore on his other hand. Maybe he was superstitious too: Bashir hadn't desired an engagement ring, but he felt it somehow necessary that Garak should have something of Bashir's world and customs. Garak had in turn come home one day with a ring for Bashir. Cardassians tended to miss the significance, which made the glint of their jewellery throughout the day all the more delicious.

Garak spoke for them: “Madam, you are too kind. We wish to marry to as quickly as possible. Julian here does not believe in long engagements.” That apparently pleased Madam Hress, who smiled at Bashir. Bashir wanted to say that years of verbal foreplay were engagement enough, but he kept his mouth shut. Garak went on. “But first, there is a great deal of paperwork to be filed for a union as... unique as ours.” Garak delicately side-stepped the issue of Bashir's bureaucratic battle for citizenship, and the company present politely did not make note of Bashir's Humanity, offering, _ahh_ s only.

“'Julian,'” Madam Hress hummed, echoing Garak's use of his name. Bashir's name always sounded so strange on Cardassian tongues. “What a lovely name. What does it mean?”

What an odd question. Bashir didn't think his parents considered name meanings, rather wanting an old name that they liked the sound of. Bashir's father had once said they simply went through a database when his mother was in her third trimester and tried out names with 'Bashir.' Bashir smiled pleasantly nevertheless; his practised public smile. He had just whitened his teeth. “It means 'youth,' and also 'child of Jove,' who was an ancient god.” Bashir fought to be interesting despite his annoyance, and tried for humour. “Hopefully it is a good omen, and I will age well.”

Madam Hress chuckled, amused, and the rest of the company did as well. Garak squeezed his shoulder, soothing, slipping his hand away to take a drink.

The conversation drifted off into names, and then tales of Madam Hress's grandchildren, and then the educational system, which Professor Aleena and the poet had a great deal to say about. Bashir listened attentively while carefully and politely picking at the food in front of him.

For small parties like this, Cardassians prepared what were essentially _hors d'oeuvres_ , small portions of comestibles on many communal plates. One used a fine metal skewer, like for kebabs, to pick up individual selections. Bashir smiled around a bit of salty fish wrapped in fried breading, took a sip of kanar, and hoped he looked pretty. He nearly choked on his drink when he saw Councilmember Sitess staring at him, and sipped and smiled roundly to cover his surprise. Garak was in quite the debate over standardised testing with Professor Aleena and Martik. To his right, Izbet watched the discussion like a sporting event, which Bashir supposed it was. Izbet's hair was elaborately done: Bashir guessed her husband or friend might have helped with the difficult styling work. Holding large fans of blue-black hair in place were beautiful combs, made from a material that shone like pearl. 

Pointedly avoiding Sitess's stare, Bashir focused instead on Izbet. “Madam Burtak -” she startled at this, “your hair is absolutely stunning. Do you make your own hair jewellery?”

The woman addressed still seemed rather shocked to be at a party with a group of people she likely perceived to be above her station, and further to be talking to a Human. “Why, yes.” She touched her hair self-consciously. “Thank you. Please, you may call Izbet, Doctor.”

Julian turned up his polite charm. He found it rather easy with her. “Then you must call me Julian.” Izbet hissed out a little laugh and blinked quickly at that. “No, really, I insist. Do you have a shop where you sell your jewellery, or do you rent a stall in the central marketplace? I'm afraid I don't recall seeing you there.”

Izbet recovered a little. “A shop, on Imbrez Street. But I've just opened it, I used to rent a stall. Now, jewellery is such a luxury, but I make a good business selling items for special occasions. Engagements, name days, celebrations. People still want to look their best.”

Bashir wanted to quiz her more, but suddenly, Garak tapped Bashir's leg lightly, drawing him back into the wider conversation.

The professor had her eyes fixed on Bashir, as did Sitess. Still. Professor Aleena seemed intent on pulling him into the conversation. “We were just speaking of the changes to curriculum now that we have such a closer relationship with our Federation neighbours.” Bashir would not call the relationship close, but he kept his mouth shut again. “Minister Garak says he has been enjoying Human literature for years thanks to you, but now we all have better access to a diversity of authors.”

Bashir wondered just how many Cardassians cared to read Human literature, present company excluded. He didn't want to presume that all Cardassians were uninterested in Human culture, particularly because most Cardassians he dealt with on DS9 were military. “Ah. Well, I believe sharing culture is a firm step toward truer friendship. It is Elim I have to thank for introducing me to Cardassian authors, which has served me well.” Here, Bashir took Garak's hand and tried to look besotted. It was not exactly difficult.

Sitess then spoke, with a smooth smile. “We were hoping you might have some recommendations for us.”

That was a difficult request. Bashir had been asked many times now to describe or list large aspects of Human culture in short sentences for interested Cardassians. “Well. There's such a breadth of works, and I'm not really a real student of literature.” Garak poured Bashir another glass of kanar, while Bashir tried his best not to show his annoyance with the request. “I'm just one Human, I mean, and I'm probably biased towards literature from my region of Earth, or my culture, or what I read in school as student.” He took a sip of his refreshed kanar for pause.

Garak smoothly passed the bottle of kanar to Professor Aleena on his left. His smile was pure Garak: polite, pleasing, handsome, and totally unrevealing. “I fear that my fiancé is often put in the difficult position of being the sole representative of his race. He makes such a fine effort to show a good example of Humanity, that perhaps he fears he may do a disservice to his own people, and to our curiosity.” Garak turned his smile towards Julian, acting the concerned mate, but broadcasting support on their personal frequency.

Garak's point was made.

Professor Aleena apologized in a rather non-committal Cardassian way, while Sitess insisted, “Of course, we wouldn't wish to put you in a difficult situation.” Of course not, Bashir thought. But they had likely never been the sole person of their species for scores of kilometres while in a sea of aliens, and so they didn't understand the problem with the request.

Izbet's husband spoke. His voice was soft and slow, carefully measured. “Perhaps we can narrow the request down. To poetry, shall we say. To only a few poets you enjoy, perhaps.”

Bashir was quite grateful for the suggestion. "That would be a much easier task. Thank you, sir.” The poet nodded politely. Bashir toyed with his glass, pondering. “Well, I am from a small island off one of the northern continents, called England. Our works and literary history is not better or worse than any other region, but of course, I'm rather fond of it. Have any of your heard of Emmeline Cho?” A series of silent 'no's went around the table. Garak remained silent, though of course he had read some of her work at Bashir's recommendation.

“Hmmm. She wrote primarily during our third world war. She was a soldier, and wrote of her experiences. Her use of language is brilliant, and her condemnation of the Earth governments and their actions is still discussed by students and scholars today. I highly recommend her writings.”

Sitess leaned forward imperceptibly – or imperceptibly to someone who was not genetically enhanced to measure millimetre movements as significant. “Is battle and war a common theme for Earth poets?”

Bashir chuckled. “Oh, yes. I fear I'm not the one to be making recommendations in that regard, however.” Bashir was carefully managing his intake of kanar, avoiding drunkenness out of necessity, and so took a measured sip. “I've always been a fan of ancient and older works myself, and particularly poetry about religion or love. I'm probably very sentimental.”

“Ah,” Garak cut in, still smiling smoothly. “What a great motivator of deeds those topics are.”

Bashir laughed, and the table chuckled along with him. “One teacher in high school – that is the level of school for teens – told me that all poetry is about these three things: sex and love, death, and religion.”

The poet, named Hok'ss Burtak, laughed soundly. “I would agree with that. Every poem seems to trail back to our most innate concerns and drives.” Profressor Aleena murmured in agreement. Sitess looked as if his kanar had gone bad. The others seemed to be watching the exchange alertly.

Bashir thought back to that class with Ms. Ali, and all the poems they read that semester. “One of my favourite poets, I read first as a young man in those classes. His name was John Donne, and he wrote in ancient times, over 700 years ago.”

“Ah!” Sitess animated suddenly. “I have read some of his poetry. It was recommended to me by a gul I served under several years ago." Next to him, the professor was smiling and nodding slightly.

“As have I. He was mentioned to me by a Human historian I have been communicating with."

Bashir wasn't surprised that Cardassians were dipping their feet into the pool of Human culture: despite their xenophobia, it seemed at times Human culture was insidious. That two people had read the same centuries-dead poet was a little surprising, however. Garak of course had read much of Donne's works – the two had spent many lunches together on Deep Space 9 wrangling over elegies and meditations.

Hok'ss Burtak spoke up again, gaining confidence as the conversation unfolded. “I have not heard of this Human. What is the subject matter of his poetry?”

Bashir grinned. “All three of the above. He was a priest, a lover in his youth, and then happily married. He was a man who was desperate to understand and deconstruct his illnesses and death. He saw much death in his life as well.”

Professor Aleena set her skewer down and took more kanar. “Mmm. He was quite romantic, for a Human.” Bashir supposed romance was a relative thing. “I am thinking of the poem, "Forbidding Mourning." The use of navigational instruments and the logic of science to assure his wife of the strength of their union – well – I found it quite lovely.”

Bashir thought this was a simplistic interpretation, but it was valid, and he also had difficulty understanding Cardassian poetry at the level Garak did. “Yes, I think so too. Donne uses contemporary science to elevate their love above all others – the to heavens, even.”

Sitess raised his glass, expression pleased. “Donne demonstrates a fine assuredness and force of will.” The professor cheered to that, nodding and smiling. Bashir wondered if pointing out that a healthy, motivating ego was quite common for Human poets in many cultures would be an insult or of interest, and opted to remain silent on the point, instead turning to Garak, who was watching the conversation with quick, appraising eyes, before speaking again.

“I was first drawn to his use of science and medicine in his works, but as I have grown older, I have been drawn to the romantic aspects.”

Burtak glanced at his wife, who was smiling at him. Their interactions had an air of youthful excitement and freshness to them. “I am very interested in reading this man's work.”

Bashir was pleased by Burtak's interest. Bashir imagined he out of all the new faces present would have the most interesting interpretation, being a poet himself. He could no doubt instruct Bashir on many points, Bashir being just a student himself.

Bashir was just about to offer to send Burtak a copy of Donne's works and bookmark some of his favourites, but Councilmember Sitess jumped at the opportunity to act as instructor to the poet. He raised his first two fingers, pressed together in an presentation of authority that seemed a little put on for a sector politician giving reading recommendations to an actual writer. His tone was similarly imperious. Bashir could feel Garak's amusement without looking. “The first poem you must read is Elegy 19. What is the title, Doctor?”

“'To His Mistress Going to Bed.'” Bashir received a perfunctory nod of thanks.

“Yes, thank you, Doctor. Mr. Burtak, _that_ is a poem you will appreciate as a Cardassian.”

Bashir fought to keep his forehead from crinkling. “Why do you say so, Councilmember?”

A smile slid onto Sitess's face as he turned back to Bashir. The councilmember's smile was stretched wide, pinched to narrowness, and rather patronizing. “The stirring imagery, Dr. Bashir. Donne's lover is a conquering force, who in the language of exploration, makes love a conquest.”

Bashir raised a polite eyebrow, while internally swearing. There was a sort of mess waiting to explode if a debate broke out and Bashir didn't watch his words. Burtak was asking what exactly the poem was about, but Bashir was finding it hard to listen. Sitess was listening to the poet, but his eyes flicked quickly back to Bashir's with that odd expression Bashir couldn't place before, and suddenly he knew that not only did Sitess know too little about Human culture to see why his interpretation was terribly uncomfortable, he was also apparently terrible at realising when one's interest in an engaged person went from polite interest straight off the cliff into the horribly gauche.

Sitess perhaps didn't want Bashir so much as find him an interesting specimen he wanted attention from so that he may...pin him to a board or something similar. Or perhaps he was not that advanced, and simply saw decent features in a very flattering outfit. Was admitting a rude stranger probably found you attractive flattering oneself? Bashir didn't look at Garak, but squeezed his hand, knowing a man of Garak's training missed nothing. Garak leaned in to press a kiss to Bashir's cheek – disguised as a well-timed gesture during discussion of a romantic poem – and murmured in Federation English, “What a delightful man,” which likely meant, “I should like to twist his neck.” Bashir smiled privately, leaning into the gesture.

“You're sweet,” he replied, also in English. “Let me answer first, love.” Madam Hress seemed rather charmed by their private little gestures, assuring Bashir that no one heard or understood them. In all the years of playing spy in the holosuites, Bashir would never have guessed his greatest feats of intrigue and subterfuge would be played out at as Garak's partner, in the Cardassian political arena. And he was _so_ well dressed.

Sitess had detailed the poet's verbal striptease, and Donne's delightful sexual innuendoes, which were only comprehensible in Cardassian due to the labours of literary translators. Sitess pulled out his PADD, and began to read, quoting the poem as translated into Cardassian, with odd pronunciation of the Mid-Modern English words:

_Licence my roving hands, and let them go,_

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd,

My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.”

With a satisfied little tilt of the mouth, Sitess settled back more comfortably in his seat and used his PADD to gesture toward a surprised Bashir. “You see, Doctor. This Donne's lover has conquered a land by romancing his lady.” He scanned down the text, picking out words as he passed the. “'Kingdom,' ' labour,' 'empirie,' 'mine,' 'bonds,' 'seal,' 'licence.' Donne strips this land in the form of his lover, describes its natural resources, maps it, conquer, and then lastly affirms that it is the better for it.” Here he lifted his PADD again and read the last couplet.

_“To teach thee, I am naked first; why then_

What needst thou have more covering than a man.”

Madam Hress snorted with the art of a woman who has sat through many person's woeful attempts at wooing. “It seems to me, this is yet another man who wishes to couch his prUt's questing in beautiful verse.”

This amused Garak greatly, who laughed clear and full-bodied with Izbet and Lady Martik, their chuckles echoing off the back of the garden's high retaining wall. Bashir giggled at their reaction, embarrassed by the high sound of his own laughs.

“Oh, my.” Garak let out one last chortle. “Madam Hress, you are keen student of man.” Bashir caught Izbet's eye at this and both couldn't help sharing a snort together. “Is not all poetry about rutting, or impressing one enough to earn that pleasure?”

Sitess seemed to not like the way this conversation was going, and was about to voice that, but Bashir thought it would be better and more amusing to cut him off. “My dear, perhaps I ought to have written _you_ poetry.” He waved his pinkie at Garak in admonishment, while the group snickered. “Seven years!” Bashir addressed the little group. “Seven years of lunches and debating. I can tell Donne about labours!” 

“Did you not once send me this very poem to read?” Garak asked, easily picking up on Bashir's little diverting spectacle.

Bashir looked round the table with self-deprecating disappointment. “Well, I'm sad to say, friends, it did little good.” Their little play had the intended effect: the table, save Sitess, was chuckling or laughing outright. Sadly, Sitess was not not be deterred.

“Doctor Bashir.” Sitess waved his PADD at him again. Bashir popped some grilled twinning root in his mouth with as much boyish charm as he could muster. “You don't agree that this poem's main conceit is exploration and conquest?”

Bashir chewed his root carefully, and washed it down, a show of contemplation. “I think Donne uses imagery of exploration and ownership to write a romantic and sexual poem, yes. But I don't interpret it as conquest.” Bashir made a study of his hand, still holding Garak's. “I think it is difficult for any Human to accept that reading.”

Sitess's eye ridges drew downward, displeased. “So you agree that the reading is there, but that you do not wish to accept it.”

Burtak spoke up, his eyes on Sitess. “There is always more than one reading of a piece of work. Many people come to me and with a completely novel interpretation of one of my pieces. It was not my intent, but once a work is written, it is has flown the poet's pen.”

Bashir resisted the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose. He was developing a migraine, a phenomena which had started out of nowhere half a year ago. Kanar was perhaps a bad analgesic. He drank more anyway, counting on his enhanced metabolism to keep him somewhat sober. He was tired of having to explain Human culture on demand. Burtak had given him a very generous hand, and he mentally thanked him. “Mr. Burtak, I think that hits at exactly why Humans reject a reading of conquest. It really depends on the context of the poem. Tell me, Councilmember Sitess, do you know much of Donne's historical period?”

Sitess answered, 'no,' of course. Why read about someone's history when you can demand it be explained to you? Professor Aleena frowned. “I have only started looking at Terran history. I admit I have been looking more at the 22nd century than anything else.”

“Well.” Bashir collected his thoughts. “John Donne wrote in England during our 17th century. He was very learned by his time's standard. He was a priest and scholar, and so knew a great deal about medicine, history, mythology, science, and contemporary research and advances. England and the neighbouring continent of Europe fancied themselves the centre of the planet, of the universe, really. During Donne's period, these nations had developed well enough the technology to navigate and explore the globe by sea like they never could before. This made them very heady.”

“Ah,” cut in the professor. “And so the use of maps, and compasses, and globes in his works makes much more sense.”

“Yes,” Bashir agreed. “In any case, England and other countries set out to explore and discover new lands. Only, they didn't discover new lands. The lands were inhabited. 'My new-found-land,' what the invaders of Canada literally called Newfoundland, is a fiction. People had been living there already for thousands and thousands of years.”

Sitess perhaps could see where this was going, as he was now frowning fiercely, and making stabs and various plates. Bashir continued, pleased. “The Europeans viewed the people they found as savages, as less human, and thus began a history of genocide, rape, slave labour, and cultural destruction. The effects have lasted through to today. Some cultures are still struggling to preserve their heritage.”

Now everyone was frowning but Garak, who was carefully watching the group with a mild expression. Professor Aleena cleared her throat softly. “I see. So, Donne wrote this poem in the midst of this history, on the side of the aggressors, perhaps not realizing the offence it might cause, or the hubris it showed.”

Bashir let out a relieved sigh. “Yes, exactly. This was also a period of great misogyny, where woman were the legally the property of men. To compare a woman to a plot of land, to give her no voice in the romantic act, and to invoke the imperialism we Humans still pay for, is a difficult thing for us to swallow today.”

Sitess's laugh sounded like a bark, and did him no favours. “So you ignore the historical context and read something happier into it? How very Human.”

Bashir sat up a little straighter, reminding himself he was dressed incredibly well, and that he was the expert here, relatively speaking. He leaned into Garak, silently thanking him for all the years of debate practise, Cardassian style.

“Councilmember. Really. I didn't say that at all. Humans work to never forget our terrible history. We are always reminded of it. Only a few hundred years ago, my ancestors suffered greatly under imperialistic governments. My mother and father would read our family histories to me, remind me of it regularly. The lesson is repeated in Starfleet, reminding us how easy it is to think that your exploration of a land is just, is warranted, is even for the betterment of the indigenous people. That is why we have the Prime Directive.” Someone coughed, and Burtak laughed, quickly covering his mouth. They got the point. Bashir paused for effect, then turned to Garak and squeezed his hand, trying to visibly shift from unsubtly criticising the occupation of Bajor to poetic love again.

“Humans tend to look at the joy Donne uses in describing sex; the joy of discovering a person, discovering passion. John Donne loved his wife dearly, and it's possible this poem was for her. Donne suffered from the time's misogyny, but we may imagine his wife would have been a consenting partner, despite his lapses. Think of the compass in 'Forbidding Mourning,' Councilmember, how it demonstrates how powerful the connection between husband and wife is, that their movements are linked like compass arms.” Professor Aleena was nodding, her eyes thoughtful. “My reading of the poem acknowledges the racism and violence of the poem's history, and amplifies the romance so that it can be enjoyed. But were I teaching a poetry class, or history lesson, I would be far more critical." Bashir grinned wrly. "Thank heavens I'm not.” The Burtaks chuckled at that.

“Dr. Bashir,” Martik was smiling. “That was very informative. Thank you.” Internally, Bashir sighed. Of course it was. If anyone, save perhaps the Burtaks, actually took anything away from it, it would be a miracle.

Feeling a bit like a popped balloon, Bashir turned back to Hok'ss Burtak, carefully ignoring Sitess and keeping his posture strong. “I would be happy to send you files on Donne and a few other poets if you'd like.” Burtak nodded deeply, with honest gratitude.

“Thank you, Doctor. That would be very much appreciated.”

“Well!” Bashir picked up his skewer again, and sharply stabbed a little roasted sand crawler meat, a piece which just happened to be in front of Sitess. “I think that's all I have to say about that.”

Garak chuckled, a little pride-for-show creeping into his voice. “Isn't he a charming debater? He's much better with the scalpel, however.” Garak smiled winningly at Sitess.

 

Bashir spent the rest of the evening sat back comfortably, shoulder to shoulder with Garak, who carried the conversation in his perfectly slick manner so that Bashir could laugh at the right places and generally play the part of well-dressed partner. He traded information with Izbet, promising to visit her shop, and hoping to have tea or lunch with her. Sitess was rather deflated and cast only a furtive look at Bashir here or there. Bashir feigned obliviousness around mouthfuls of fish and vegetable, and polished their Elim-and-Julian veneer.

Their walk home was quiet. It was now rather late, and the streets were empty – their voices and footfalls echoed tremendously in the still night air. Bashir leaned on Garak as they walked, and perhaps sensing that Bashir was turning his own thoughts over and over in his too-active mind, Garak murmured softly about this and that as they made their way home, commenting blithely on the weather or the fragrance of the flowers they passed.

Their new flat was above an empty shop – Garak liked this, as it made access to their home more difficult. They hadn't decided what to do with the ground floor yet. They went inside, and Bashir didn't even wait for Garak to touch the lights before collapsing at the kitchen table. Garak leaned down and kissed Bashir's temple before fetching Bashir's hypospray so he could administer his own migraine medication. It was moderately effective.

“Wine, doctor?” Garak was rifling through their coolbox, ever tuned into Bashir's needs. Garak likely needed a drink as well.

“Yes, please.” Bashir blew out a sigh that turned into an ironic raspberry – his thoughts on the party boiled down to a juvenile gesture. Garak poured a Terran rosé for them both. They now had real wine glasses and cups, something that made Bashir feel like they were a proper couple now, with real couple's trappings. He sipped his drink and hummed a little. “Please don't kill Councilmember Sitess.”

“Darling.” Garak looked scandalized. “I'm shocked you would think that.” _Uh huh._ “Violence would be a terrible career move.” Garak sniffed his wine before sipping, then added: “He must hope he has a very clean background, however.”

Bashir snickered, making his nose burn with alcohol. “Oops.” He wiped at his face.

Garak was silent for a long moment, studying his pink wine. Bashir sat silently, too, and listened to the insects hissing and chirping outside their flat. The windows made the inside quite tolerable without needing to turn on the active environmental controls, at least at night.

“My dear.” Garak's smile was gentle, small. “I imagine it is difficult for you, to be forever put on the spot. To be the only Human for kilometres, and to be forced into the uncomfortable role of social and political ambassador.” Garak's words were careful. “I regret that I have put you in this position.”

“Garak, no.” Bashir reached out for his hand. “I chose to come to Cardassia. I chose to be with you. I supported your campaign. This was my decision.” Bashir found himself growing more and more emphatic. “I love my life here. It's true I am exhausted by performing as some sort of exotic exhibit, but I am growing a deep love for Cardassia.” Bashir felt as if a full tonne of weight slid liquid slow off his shoulders as the night's first true smile smoothed his face. “And, Garak, I am so in love with you.”

Garak blinked twice, slow and steady, his expression schooled. His mouth was carefully set, but his eyes were soft as they watched Bashir's face, his eye ridges lowering, and the lines around his face gently crinkling. He tugged on Bashir's hand, drawing him around the table and into his lap. Bashir settled in easily. Hands still clasped, Bashir pushed his face into Garak's neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of his scales. He smelled of the light cologne he sometimes dabbed onto his neck scales. It reminded Bashir of fresh autumn leaves.

Garak wrapped his free arm around Bashir, and let out the softest sigh, whispered like a secret. “My dear – my _dearest_ – I adore you in turn, and yet I deny any bias when I say this: you were magnificent tonight.”

Bashir pulled back a little, enough to judge Garak's expression. He was smiling, his eyes bright with mischief, and something else Bashir couldn't place. “Really? I tried to pretend I was a spy in one of my old holosuite programs. One of the beautiful and deadly women.”

Garak chuckled at that. “My dear, you were far better than that. You always are. You have come to an alien world, one where you are either scornfully ignored or treated as a curiosity, and yet you have made a life and career here. You adapt with alacrity, accept hardship without complaint, and make me appear far better than I am.” Garak's smile turned smug. “If I hadn't already, I'd ask you to marry me.”

Unbearably pleased, and struck suddenly shy, Bashir could only laugh. “Garak, I was the one who proposed.” He bit his lip, face heated with a blush. “You make me feel ridiculously special, Garak. I don't know what to say. Just that it goes both ways. You make me better than I am, too.” Bashir kissed Garak on the check playfully. “You certainly make me prettier. After tonight, I do believe clothes indeed make the man.”

Garak sneaked a hand around the back of Bashir's neck, pulling him in closer so they were nose to nose, lips to lips. “My dear, you are lovely in the most garish of garments. My humble designs simply highlight the beauty that is naturally yours.” With that charming compliment, Garak closed the centimetre-wide gap between them with a soft kiss.

Bashir hummed and mumbled in the kiss, their lips sloppy. “Oh, shut up, you absolute flirt.” After a few moments more, of nipping and licking, he murmured again, voice spit-slick. “Garak. Make love to me.”

Garak shifted, his grip on Bashir's neck tightening slightly. “Ah, Doctor Bashir. Your pleasure is mine.” Garak moved to stand, bringing Bashir to stand upright with him. With the solemnity of one leading his mate to the bridal chamber, Garak led Bashir to their bedroom, hand-in-hand.

Bashir and Garak's new flat's most appreciated feature was the bedroom, which was an actual separate room, a serious step up from their last home. It wasn't grand, but it fit their belongings, and allowed for comfortable movement. They had a slightly larger bed, a good-sized window, and a sliding door that opened onto a little private balcony. Importantly, the balcony faced the back of the building, the little courtyard behind, and an alleyway lined with an overgrowth of star-leaf trees. This pleased Garak tremendously, with whom privacy and lack of outside access was a necessary paranoia. It pleased Bashir, as he was left able to walk about their bedroom naked as often as he liked, which was rather often indeed.

The bright three moons outside cast a soft glow into their bedroom without any artificial lighting. Bashir touched the wall panel and activated the white fairy lights he had wound around the frame of their bed and night table. Their home décor was largely in a Cardassian style – the lights, which Bashir had sent from home, reminded him of time as a teenager spent reading by them in bed on rainy English mornings. They cast a certain magic throughout the room. He hoped they improved the ambience for Garak as well, who always looked at them with his regular mildly charmed expression.

Bashir stepped slowly to the middle of the room into open floorspace, watching Garak. Garak stood at the little bench next to their wardrobe, and was working on the fastenings to his tunic with a quiet skill. Obviously aware he was being watched, Garak turned to Bashir, curious amusement gentling his expression.

Bashir smiled, slipping his sandals off with his lacquered toes. He was still quite pleased with how they looked. “Have a seat.” He pointed to the bed, and Garak's eye ridges raised in question. He set his tunic on the bench, and sat at the edge of the bed, facing Bashir in comfortable compliance.

Bashir breathed in to centre himself, as his he were preparing for a performance. He gestured to himself, then spoke: “I am Anne Donne.” He reached around to untie and unclasp his tunic before before pulling it over his head under Garak's curious gaze. He tossed his tunic toward the dressing bench, and with his best recital voice, said:

_“Unlace myself, for that harmonious chime,_

Tells you from me, that now it is bed time.”

Garak's gaze lit suddenly from understanding, and a relieved and emboldened Bashir worked the fastenings of his trousers and slid them down with deliberate slowness and a little tilt of the hips. Nearly done with his small striptease, Bashir ran his hands from chest to hips, to the waistband of his undergarments, giving Garak his best smoulder. Garak met his eyes, unblinking and heated.

As Bashir hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear, and pulled them down, bending in what he hoped was a sexy manner, Garak spoke, his voice slow and careful with the consonants:

_“Off with that happy busk, which I envy,_

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.”

Bashir couldn't stifle a snicker at what was now a pun doubled – Bashir was indeed half hard, and Garak and sat primly smug across from him, pleased with his meta-literary commentary.

Bashir laughed again as he stumbled freeing his shorts from his ankles. Those he tossed as well, with a naked flourish and a small bow.

Garak kindly did not comment on Bashir's sloppy housekeeping. Instead, he titled his head and raised a hand palm upwards, in a 'come' gesture. “If you are Anne Donne, does that make me John?”

Bashir stepped forward, taking Garak's hand. He kissed each knuckle before answering. “You are John Donne, and I am Anne, and tonight we will create our own meaning. We will both be the poet tonight.”

“Ah, Doctor. How very Julian of you, to recreate and empower the subject of a poem for your own enjoyment.” Garak raised his other hand to stroke gently at Bashir's cheek. “But your creativity is as ever, absolutely thrilling.” He drew his hand down from Bashir's cheek to his neck, chest, and then hip, studying silently for a moment. With humour, he carefully grasped Bashir's cock and stroked it a few times before quoting over Bashir's small groan:

“Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.”

Bashir hummed in pleasure, but had other plans. He carefully pulled Garak's hand away from his cock so that he could kneel, keeping his actions slow, trying to write meaning into the very movements of his body. Garak easily moved his legs to accommodate him with matching gravity.

Garak's trousers were made with a thick fabric, unlike Bashir's light attire. They were finely textured, the fabric having a slightly contrasting, very delicate design stitched into the the dark grey weave. It was a bit like a vine design, and Bashir enjoyed the feeling of it as he ran his hands over Garak's thighs. The fabric was a bit too thick to do much teasing through it, but Bashir still tried, pressing his face close to Garak's groin, imagining his hot breath could reach Garak's heated ajan. He kissed Garak through the trousers, forever hopeful, and started on the two fastenings that closed Garak's them.

Garak shifted his hips to assist. “You are the one who is rewriting literary history, and I am the one receiving the giver's pleasure? You are too kind.”

Bashir laughed, easing Garak's trousers and undergarments as one over his hips as Garak lifted his behind in accommodation. “Is that not why your people call it 'the giver's pleasure'?” Garak simply _hmmm_ ed in response, perhaps because Bashir had tossed his clothes inelegantly over the bed.

Bashir smirked. “I am Anne Donne, and I want to be an explorer, too.” He paused. This part was important, not for Garak, not for their well-woven trust in the bedroom, but for the poetry they would write: “License my roving hands to go, Garak.”

Bless Garak's ever-quick understanding of Bashir's movements and motives. Garak took hold of Bashir's hand once more, setting it on his thigh. “Then where your hand is set, your seal shall be.” Garak smiled wryly. “Perhaps not just your hand, Mrs. Donne.”

Without the thick trousers in the way, Bashir was able to lean in close, first with his nose, nudging at the opening of Garak's ajan and breathing in deeply the scent of scale and heat and bodily fluids. He wrapped his arms under Garak's thighs, his hands resting on what part of the buttocks he could touch. He gently stroked the scales there as he licked first carefully around the outer ridge of the ajan, which was warmer than the surrounding flesh, and a little swollen. He then pushed his tongue into the opening itself, tasting the mild and slightly sweet taste of skin and natural lubricant there.

Garak's hand had found its way to Bashir's face, cupping his cheek and urging him on. He breathed heavily at the ministrations, but didn't make any other sound. When Bashir pushed his face in closer, and thrust his tongue deeper in an attempt to find where Garak's prUt was resting, no doubt ready to evert, Garak gasped, and Bashir pulled his face back so that Garak's prUt had room to push out. Garak's anatomy obliged smartly.

Garak let out a long breath, looking down to where Bashir sat with Garak's cock in his face. “Your tongue is too clever, dear.” Bashir's smirk returned, and Garak guided his face closer again with gentle control.

Bashir teased Garak first, kissing the head of Garak's prUt, and then nuzzled the shaft, smearing fluid on his face and frustrating Garak, who huffed and rubbed his thumb over Bashir's lips. Finally, Bashir stroked his tongue down the tapered shaft, from the narrower head down to the wide base, where the sensitive irllun circled, and provided the most pleasure for the prUt's owner. Bashir mouthed and licked at the irllun, letting saliva pool in his mouth, before kissing back up the head and taking Garak's prUt in his mouth properly. Lips closed tight, mouth slick, he slid down the shaft. Cardassian cocks were shorter than Human anatomy, which made reaching the base and the irllun with his lips an effort, but one that came from accommodating a progressively-wider shaft and not from the length. Bashir's jaw ached as he moved up and down and sucked. The sounds his efforts produced made the endeavour extremely worthwhile.

Bashir worked in this manner for a short while, appreciating the soft grunts and _ah_ s his efforts created, letting Garak pet his face and hair in a proprietary way. When Garak's hips started to shift back and forth, however, he pulled off sloppily, his face wet, a line of spit connecting Bashir's lips to Garak's prUt. The strand snapped as he licked his lips, and Garak groaned lowly. 

“What's wrong?” Garak wiped at Bashir's messy face with his thumb, which did very little to clean him up.

“Nothing.” Bashir licked his front top teeth, tasting Garak on the tip of his tongue. “I've just changed my mind.” He shifted on his knees. “Will you fuck me?”

Garak chuckled, in rather good humour for someone denied what was proving to be excellent fellatio. “ _Will_ I? Doctor, you need never ask.” Garak softly wiped Bashir's chin, again not effecting much improvement over the mess. “Get on the bed.” 

Bashir's knees were much relieved to be off the tiled floor and he crawled gratefully onto the bed, rolling onto his back in a little feat of acrobatics. Flat on his back, he wriggled with a hand on his cock, in what he hoped was a sexy performance. Garak watched him with the air of one who has suffered their partner's seductive onslaughts for quite some time.

“Doctor.” Garak made his way toward Bashir on all fours, coming to hover over him like a long shadow. “Have you an itch on your back?”

Bashir ceased his wriggling, a little deflated. “Maybe I'm just enjoying the coolness of the sheets on my back.”

“You are an excellent performer. You may have missed your calling.”

Bashir laughed delightedly, bringing his arms up and around Garak's back. “Ah, but I rather like my audience of one.”

This appeared to be a pleasing answer, for Garak leaned down into Bashir's arms and met lips with him. Bashir always loved the idea that Garak could taste himself on Bashir's lips, and here he thought that was what inspired the harsh nips at the corner of his mouth and full centre of his lower lip. Bashir let Garak push into his mouth with little resistance, tracking Garak's teeth with the tip of his tongue, and catching Garak's tongue in a gentle, quick bite. Garak pulled away just as Bashir was trying to make a grab for Garak's lip with his incisors. Hovering just above Bashir's face, Garak's visage was lit up with little points of glittering white from the lights on the headboard. Sharing breaths and air in heavy sighs, Bashir admired the effect, which was a little supernatural, and always charmed Bashir. He raised a hand to trace Garak's eye ridge, and then the softer flesh on his cheek.

“Julian,” Garak said, and Bashir smiled at his own name on Garak's lips. “License my roving hands to go.” Bashir's eyes closed, basking in their perfect understanding. When he opened them again, he drew his hand from cheek to neck, to shoulder, 'round waist and back, and whispered: “Go. Before, behind, between, above, below.”

Garak made good on that request, drawing his hand down Bashir's body and following its trail with kisses and licks. He made Bashir groan with a twist on his nipples, one after another, then soothed the burn with wet kisses. Garak drew soft scratch lines on his belly, and twisted his tongue into his navel, making Bashir twist and wriggle. He combed his fingers through the carefully-groomed thatch of hair Bashir's cock rose from, and bent down to breathe in deeply like a connoisseur, teasing Bashir's balls and cock with soft touches.

Tingling and hard, Bashir planted his feet on the bed and spread his legs wider, granting better access to ' _between_ ' and ' _behind_.' Garak knelt thoughtfully for a moment before taking his index finger and wetting it copiously with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth. 

Bashir's cock jumped at the sight of Garak's puckered, sucking lips and he reached for it again, now long-hard and aching. He stroked it slowly, watching. The sight made his breath hitch. “ _Garak._ Bravo. You are quite the performer yourself.”

Garak pulled his finger out of his mouth and mimicked Bashir's earlier bow with a pleased smirk. “Up now,” he said, pushing hintingly at Bashir's knees. Bashir wrapped his hands around the back of this thighs and pulled his legs in towards his core.

Garak teased at Bashir's entrance with the pad of his finger, like a little knock at the door, before pushing on. Bashir sighed at the gentle beginning stretch and let his head rest back upon the pillow. Garak made gentle thrusts in and out, stroking lightly and teasingly at his prostrate - just enough to make heavy breathing become heavy sighs.

Garak pulled his finger out, and Bashir felt a little deflated from its absence. He titled his head up to watch Garak lean over him and reach at their bedside table. He pulled from one of its little square drawers a single-use packet of lubricant. With his wickedly good teeth, Garak ripped it open and returned to kneeling between Bashir's legs. Bashir watched him coat his fingers, and bring two back to Bashir's wanting hole.

Bashir arched his back and melted into the mattress and pillows as he relaxed into the push and stretch of two fingers. Preparation had become sweet simplicity as Bashir and Garak grew more and more adept with each other's bodies. Bashir moaned his appreciation as Garak stretched him, and he rocked his hips into Garak's thrusts. Garak introduced a third finger, but he didn't get far with his ministrations. “Enough.” Bashir grabbed at Garak's hand, feeling overheated and wanton. “I want you now.”

Garak carefully pulled his fingers out. “As you wish.” His own cock already lubricated naturally, Garak flicked the little half-used packet onto the table with impressive aim. He smeared what was left on his fingers onto his cock for good measure.

Garak appeared to Bashir as a hovering fairy-lit beauty once more when he leaned over Bashir, braced on one forearm. Bashir wrapped first his legs, then arms around Garak, and felt Garak's other hand stroke his ass soothingly before he pushed inside, in a slow single movement. They hovered there, meeting each other's eyes, before Bashir broke the silence with a plea-laced whine.

Garak moved in thrusts designed to please Bashir and not himself, strong and steady movements in and out, never leaving Bashir's body entirely. Garak's shaft being tapered and wider at the base, Bashir was stretched anew with each movement, and he replanted his feet on the bed to meet these thrusts with fevered eagerness. With gut-clenching accuracy, Garak reliably _just-so_ hit on Bashir's prostate, and Bashir heard himself growing louder as the bundle of nerves was teased and their combined movements ground his cock between their two bodies.

It was too much stimulation to last long. Bashir clawed at Garak's shoulders, grunting awfully loudly, overwhelmed by the stimulation. He was frenzied and sweat-drenched. Garak strained to lean as close to Bashir as possible, biting his chin and nose, his control appearing to slip as well. Garak grunted deliciously harsh breaths that still tasted of kanar into Bashir's face. Bashir was vaguely aware Garak was saying something to him, and as the words coalesced back together in the heated air between them, he heard: “Come for me, Julian.” At the third coaxing, Bashir's stomach clenched, and his hips jerked spasmodically as he came with a cry half-screamed. He felt the rush of hot liquid hit his belly and chest and smear between their bodies messily. As he sagged, he realized he he was gripping Garak's shoulder still, his nails pushing hard into scale. His hands slid away from Garak's body, and fell at his sides, suddenly boneless.

Garak had stilled his movements, but remained inside of Bashir, still delivering a wonderful stretch. Bashir smiled lopsidedly at Garak, made silly from fucking. He experimentally tried moving his hips, and watched Garak's face shift. “Elim,” he said, and Garak looked at him carefully, his eyes soft. “My country is yours.” He waved his hand grandly, an odd gesture for one sex giddy and come-covered. “ _Mi casa es tu casa_.” That may not have translated, but Garak chuckled nonetheless. Bashir pressed: “What do you want, love?”

“You're very generous, my dear.” Bashir supposed Garak's arms must be quite tired by this point, and tried to roll them both over. Garak resisted, instead adding: “What do _you_ want, Julian-slash-Anne? You are the inspired poet, and I must say, your lyric has proven quite lovely thus far.”

That was easy. He wanted Garak's pleasure, tangibly. “I want you to come inside me. I want you to...” Bashir searched for the right analogy in the post-orgasmic fog. “I want you to plant your flag.”

Garak pressed his face into Bashir's neck to stifle his laugh, and this time when Bashir tried to shift them into a roll, Garak complied, turning them carefully so that Bashir rested, a little refreshed, on top of Garak, and Garak remained comfortably seated inside Bashir.

Bashir raised up a little on his arms so he could twist his hips better, and watch Garak's face as it changed .

Garak put his feet on the bed and arms around Bashir. “Did you know,” he said, voice low, as he started to move in a slow grinding motion, “that you look quite ethereal dappled by these little lights and the moons?”

Bashir laughed. Though worn, he did his best to shift his hips in a prUt-pleasing circular motion. “Are you telling me I'm pretty?”

Garak grunted a little as he replied, occupied with their combined efforts. “You are lovely in all lights, my love.”

They rocked together silently for many long minutes. Bashir hummed and moaned with little aftershocks, his body too tired to go further. He stroked his hand through Garak's hair, thumbed lightly and scratched at his sensitive neck scales, and drank in Garak's little losses of control, stretching to catch gasps and grunts with his mouth and tongue. Garak came suddenly and silently, pulling Bashir down hard to his chest as he shook and spilled.

After a moment, Garak's prUt slid back into its home and left Bashir feeling well-stretched and wonderfully aching. He shifted to lay his head on Garak's chest. They were both smeared with cold come, and Bashir could feel more tricking down his ass crack and cooling. Bashir supposed he didn't mind much. Garak was petting his hair absently, fingers light and soothing, when he shifted and kissed the top of Bashir's head, murmuring into the sweaty strands, “This is your greatest gift, Julian. Your consent, in all things concerning me.”

That seemed such a loaded string of words. Bashir thought back to his decision to move to Cardassia, based on a long-distance epistolary relationship and seven years of lunches alone. He thought of Garak's need for his agreement to campaign for Minister. He thought of the poetry they just wrote, ink still wet, page not blotted. None of it had felt like a concession; he lost nothing, nor conceded anything precious that wasn't returned tenfold.

“Garak.” He breathed in Garak's scent again. “It is an easy thing to give.” He kissed Garak's chest, and spoke into the scale and flesh and bone, and the heart beneath it. “I love you.”

Garak's hand stilled in Bashir's hair and slipped to his back. “As your people say, there's no accounting for taste.”

Bashir nipped a little at Garak's chest, humming happily, too well-fucked to trade quips. Bashir didn't expect an answer back. He was surprised when Garak returned, voice low, “Well, my beautiful Anne Donne, I love you as well, despite your taste in men.”

Bashir grinned. “I'm so relieved.” Garak moved to reach his arm out for the container of saniwipes on the table. Bashir rolled over and sat up, letting Garak shift up as well. Garak started on Bashir first, hands and saniwipe cool and comforting. Bashir took a wipe for himself and moved to wash Garak's belly in turn. As they cleaned each other in comfortable and cooperative silence, something occurred to Bashir.

“I've been wrong, I think.” As soon as he said it, he knew what flavour of reply Garak would have.

“I know that well enough. I keep a list, you know.”

Bashir swatted at Garak's chest with a saniwipe. “I mean about the poem, about countries, and lovers.” Garak stopped his ministrations and looked at Bashir expectantly. “I thought we were two lands, and two explorers. But you and I, we are one country. Perhaps a 17th century man just lacked the language to say that. I don't know. But we are shared space, with no break.” Bashir grasped mentally for the words that he couldn't find, that perhaps didn't exist. 

Garak seemed to understand nevertheless. “We have different terrain, perhaps, but our lives are shared. Our consent is shared. You do not conquer what is equally shared and given freely.” Garak had a wry look on his face. “It is a difficult concept for a Cardassian to find a tongue for, too.”

Bashir wanted to push, to find the words, to say more, but his head felt muddled. He had grown suddenly tired, and his migraine was back, tapping at his skull insistently and breaking up his thoughts. Instead, he moved to lay down, attempting to draw Garak with him. Garak peered at him curiously instead.

“Is your head bothering you again?” Garak carefully brushed his thumb over the space between eyelid and brow. “The skin beneath your eyes is very dark.”

“I'm fine,” Bashir insisted. “Come lay down.” Garak ignored him, padding lightly to fetch the hypospray left on the kitchen table. His bare feet gently slapped the tile floor, and he came back with not just the hypospray, but a glass of water.

“Stay right there, doctor.” Garak gently pushed Bashir back into a lying position, head on several nice, Terran-style pillows. “You are a terrible patient. The old adage is true.”

Bashir smiled despite the ache it caused, and watched Garak load the hypospray with the medication Bashir kept in their bedside table. Sometimes it was nice to be cared for, to have someone do something for you simply because they wished, not because they must.

Garak first administered the sumaserodal, designed to help stop the cause of the migraine, demonstrating his never-discussed medic skills, no doubt picked up clandestinely. Next, he added hydroketafyl, a painkiller. As Garak pressed the trigger and the medications entered his bloodstream, the worst of the pounding in his skull almost immediately subsided. Garak looked a little relieved at Bashir's exhaled sigh. He handed Bashir the glass of water, and Bashir downed half of it in several long gulps. He set the glass on the little wall ledge on his side of the bed, and finally, Garak touched the light panel to turn off the lights and settled in to bed. When Garak was resting comfortably on his back, Bashir moved to curl up against his form. Garak's arm came to rest on Bashir's back.

Their bedroom was still shining with moonslight, enough that Bashir could still make out Garak's features, and the landscape of his body. He examined his own hand where it rested on Garak's chest, and imagined the colours of their skin and scale blending into a smooth gradient between light brown and grey, so that he could not see for sure where one began and the other ended. If he moved his hand, the colours would shift in accommodation; two forms reacting to the other's touch and movement. He pictured in his mind their features blended on a child's face, indistinct in his drowsy and aching head, but beautiful in the glow of hopeful dreaming.

Garak yawned above him, and spoke in a drowsy voice. “You have worn me out, Doctor. Come kiss me good-night before I drift away.” Bashir shifted up, and kissed Garak once with a quick peck before sharing a kiss a little longer and sweeter.

“Good night, lovely,” Bashir whispered into Garak's lips. He sounded to himself like his mother suddenly, and recalled her voice speaking the endearment to his father.

Bashir lay his head back down and waited for the remnants of his migraine to fade away. Garak soon fell asleep, and Bashir listened to the low hiss of his gentle snores, timing his partner's breaths like counting sheep. He tried to call back the child's image, his heart suddenly clenched with want, but as his own breathing deepened and his brain began to hum into sleepy white noise, all he could see was an indistinct form that he called out to before slipping into dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Why the Ode to Donne? In real life, I'm an English prof. I'm not working currently due to disability, and this fic became a bit of a love letter to the work I love and miss. I've done a lot of work with Donne, and Bashir's reading of To His Mistress is essentially my own and is informed by my own academic writings. Yeah, it's a bit of a sssibilance-wank, but hopefully my love for the work comes through. We often find problems in literature or other media we love; we are often disappointed when we find racism, imperialism, transphobia, ableism, homophobia, or other upsetting strains of ignorance or oppression. But by actively criticising what we do not like or approve of, and by elevating that which elevates us, we are able to rewrite that work in a very real way - and often inform actual change in media.
> 
> Shifting to lighter fare, in case anyone was wondering, the two migraine medications Bashir took were totally made up by me - by combining parts of other pain/migraine medications in totally unscientific ways.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as, yep, [sssibilance](http://sssibilance.tumblr.com/). It's the usual nonsense.


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